Starobeshevskaya village—afternoon
As his assistant had predicted, the deputy mayor was holding down his corner at the tavern where Tolevi had first found him. He was neither surprised to see Tolevi nor apologetic that he hadn’t met him at his office as planned.
“I talked to Olga at the prison,” Tolevi told him, sipping a vodka. “We have an arrangement. But her price is very high.”
“How much?”
“Forty percent.”
“Outrageous!”
“Yes. Half of it is in merchandise, at least. But I have to pay her ten thousand euros up front.”
“You should have waited for me. I could have driven a much better bargain.”
Tolevi shrugged. “If you can cut a better deal, it will go to your share. In the meantime, she will give us two prisoners we can charge for release. This way, I can recoup a little of my investment.”
“Ah, excellent idea. Which ones?”
“I have a man in mind. You can name the other.”
“Who is your man?”
“Olak Urum.”
The deputy mayor straightened, suddenly sober.
“Why do you want him?”
“I can get a good price. And he did me a favor before the war. Several, actually.”
“Olak Urum? He was involved in the rebellion. They won’t give you him.”
“I would think that’s a reason they would. He was one of theirs.”
“No. He betrayed the cause.”
“How?”
The deputy mayor shook his head.
“He will owe me and be of use then,” said Tolevi.
“You told Olga this?”
“Not yet.”
“She won’t agree. I guarantee.”
“Just get me another name. Someone who will pay at least fifteen thousand euros.”
“Fifteen thousand? Impossible. No one is worth that much. Not even your Olak.”
“Then name a friend if you want, someone who will owe us and be useful. There’s too much to do to haggle. We have real money to be made here.”
“How infamous is your brother?” Tolevi asked when they were all back in the car, heading toward Donetsk.
“He’s not.”
“Why is it that the deputy mayor doesn’t think I can get him out?”
“There was a falling out in the committee. Some people hate him. Some don’t.”
“What does the prison director, the deputy warden or whatever she is—what does she think?”
“I have no idea.”
Tolevi pondered this. “He’s in the most secure part of the prison.”
The brother scoffed. “The house? They have real beds there. Not like the rest.”
“How does he rate a bed?”
“Some of the guards like him.”
“Have you thought about bribing them yourself?”
“They may arrest me, too. For being his brother.”
Back in Donetsk two hours later, Tolevi bought three more phones. He realized now it was going to cost more than ten thousand euros to free Olak, but Tolevi had no doubt from his conversation with the warden that greed would win in the end. The only problem would be making the suitable connections and then ensuring follow-through.
Don’t trust too much. This is always the stage where things are most vulnerable. You get overly optimistic and forget to be suspicious. Paranoia is not a bad thing.
Paranoia did serve him well, but so did optimism. At the moment, Tolevi was feeling almost invincible. He knew he had to guard against overconfidence, but on the other hand, wasn’t confidence necessary for victory?
The de facto partition had made it difficult to get money transfers into Donetsk from anywhere but Russia. Tolevi called a man in Moscow who he knew would lend him the ten thousand euros he needed to satisfy the prison administrator, with another forty on call just in case.
The only problem was his interest rate—one hundred percent, compounded weekly.
The CIA was good for it. Tolevi hoped. If not, it would come out of the butcher’s bounty.
Agroros Bank had recently opened a branch in Donetsk. Tolevi spent an hour and a half establishing an account there, using his Russian papers. The bank official was friendly until they got to the final set of forms, which asked what business the account holder was in.
“Importing,” said Tolevi. “Medicines, mostly.”
“From?”
“South America.”
“This is what you do?”
“Yes.”
The man picked up the papers and went into the back. It wasn’t clear what the objection might be. As the minutes ticked by, Tolevi considered whether he might be better off just leaving. But that would mean he’d have to give up getting Olak, give up on the million dollars the Agency was going to pay him for getting him out.
The money or your life?
It’s not going to come to that.
Tolevi sat for nearly twenty minutes before the clerk emerged with another man, whom he introduced as the branch president.
“You are an importer?” asked the president.
“I have arrangements with friends in Moscow,” Tolevi told him. “We have papers from the trade ministry.”
“Can I see them?”
“They’re at the hotel.”
“You ship medicine?”
“Aspirin, things like that.”
“Nothing else?”
“Coffee.”
The branch president stuck out his hand. “Thank you very much for using us.”